


In the Ballpark

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-30
Updated: 1999-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-10 23:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11137083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: What happened between Ray's homer and the boys' return to Chicago.





	In the Ballpark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Hey ho, here's a little something, not exactly a PWP, though it sure doesn't have much plot. Takes place right at the end of Dr. Longball. I figured it was pretty late by the time the ballgame ended for our lads all to head right back to Chicago, so here's what might have happened in between the end of the ballgame and the scene in the precinct.

Rude language, boys lusting after other boys, and baseball references. Don't like 'em, don't read.

Rating: G

Archive: Hexwood. Anywhere else, ask first.

Comments, flames, offers of hot monkey sex to.

This is for my sweetie, neon blue, who likes stories without angst.

***

In the Ballpark

by Jaime Arundel

So, we're holed up in this two-bit hotel room, 'cause by the time we get done it's too damn late to go driving back to Chicago. An' face it, I done a bit of partyin' tonight. I mean, my home run ... Didja see that? Hit the damn scoreboard, like I was seein' it just right. Man, the team was jumpin' outta their socks over that one. Even Screamin' Meenie, the coach, even him; hey, the guy stood me a beer, fer chrissakes.

Well, as you can tell, I'm still kinda high, still replayin' that homer in my mind, just watchin' that ball come on in, an' I'm countin' the seams an' I see the bat crack it jus' right, you know, jus' exactly so, an' then I'm watchin' it fly through the air, one beautiful perfect arc an' *crack* right into the ole scoreboard.

Good thing Fraze an' Welsh was here to take care of the paperwork, get that creepy mayor guy booked an' stowed in his nice comfy cell down in the local lock-up. Not much of a place, this, just kinda a one-horse town, like they useta say on the old westerns, but at least it's got a coupla holdin' cells.

Mind you, Sheriff Welsh's deputy ... hey, ain't that a laugh, Welsh turnin' up all of a sudden with a brother like that? Anyway, like I was sayin', the deputy down at the lock-up kinda flipped me out when I went down there to bail Fraze. I mean, I'd put back a few, partyin' with the boys, but I don't think I'd had that many. Hey, I know I hadn't. But just for a moment, I kinda thought I was hallucinatin' ... I mean, butch Frannie up an' she'd be a dead ringer. Well, you seen Fran aroun' the 27th in them tight little skirts an' it's pretty hard to imagine her butching up, but you get what I mean.

So, to get back to my story, I go down to the lock-up, past this gum-chewing deputy with the shot-gun, an' of course, just like I figured, there's Fraze, still doin' his perfect Mountie impression. I mean, I know he's had one hell of a long coupla days, but he's still lookin' pretty damn perfect. 'Less you know exactly how to look and I know how to look. He gets this little pinched look, just 'round the eyes, and maybe he's not standing quite so poker-up-the-ass straight.

Anyway, there ain't really nothin' left to do and midnight was quite a while ago, so I grab Fraser an' drag him outta there. The two Welshes are still jawing away at each other, like they can't quite figure out whether they're going to go a round or two or make like they're buddies, so I just steer Fraze right on past and out the door. Welsh kinda gives me this look, so I say, "Gotta be fresh for the drive back, bright an' early, right, Lootenant." He nods and I keep on pushing Big Red, one hand in the small of his back. He's not acting like he minds, much, and once I have him outside, he takes a big breath of the night air and stretches a bit. "Thank you, Ray," he says, and gives me one of those little smiles. "You had quite a night, I daresay."

So I tell him all about doing the rounds of Whatsitsname Illinois's pubs, all two of them, an' drinking with the boys on the team. Even Cosentino was there, poor bastard, with his arm in a cast. Him an' Kelly was still lookin' daggers at each other. Anyways, I'm telling all this to Fraze and he's nodding, all polite-like, like he does, and the next thing I know, I've got the motel key in the lock and I'm pushing the door open and holding it for Fraser to walk on into the room. 'Course Dief pushes past first and he's already up on the nearest bed.

Two singles, which sucks 'cause I like to stretch out. Twin beds are for kids, not grown-ups. Mind you, Fraze sleeps on the floor most of the time, or maybe on a little army cot in his office, so I reckon he don't care. The motel guy has stuck our stuff in the room already, and my gear is sitting on the far bed, poncho and all. I pick it up and look at it, thinking about the chick that dumped me for the poncho salesman. Hey, he got the check-kiting girl, but I got the poncho *and* the home run. Not such a bad deal.

The alarm clock on the nightstand between the two beds says 2:07am. I know Red's been up since the crack of dawn, like always, on top of bein' up real late the last few days 'cause the Ice Queen there's got him doin' triple-duty gettin' the consulate all ship-shape for that inspector whojammy, some RCMP bigwig that she's suckin' up to, like usual. I dunno why she's gotta make Fraze stand guard *and* do all that other crap. Isn't that what they make morons like Turnbull for? And Fraser don't even get any credit, 'cause she sure got him out of sight fast enough, sendin' him off to "liaise" with the 2-7, even though she knew I was outta there.

Fraser's standing at the foot of his bed, swaying a little, an' looking like he don't know what to do next. Been there, know what it's like when you're so tired you can't figure out what to take off first. Me, I don't bother to take any of it off, when I get like that. Just drop on the nearest soft surface and crash. But I know Fraser's not going to do that. Somehow, he has to get all that damn serge off and prob'ly even hung up before he'll crawl between those nice cool sheets.

All of a sudden he cracks a yawn and I'm looking past perfect white teeth straight down his throat. I can see his tonsils waggin' around in there. Figures Fraser would still have his; I had mine out when I was eight.

He's yawning so big I can feel my own jaw start to ache. His eyes are half-closed and he looks sort of small-boy adorable, standing there, all helpless. I close my own eyes for a second, 'cause I know I don't want to be thinkin' stuff like that.

"Long day, huh, Fraze?" I say, quietly, and he nods, looking at me all soft and sleepy. He runs one hand through his hair, leaving it just a little tousled, and then down the side of his face, rubbing his cheek. Even though he hasn't shaved since the early morning, he's not got much stubble showing, just a dusting of dark hairs on his cheeks and chin. If he was a blondie, like me, it probably wouldn't be enough to show at all.

"You wanna hand gettin' outta that lot?" I ask. I already know he's going to say no, being the independent kind of cuss he is, and he doesn't surprise me there. He's got one hand up, fumbling with the collar of that beacon he calls a uniform, and he's trying hard not to yawn again.

"C'mon," I say, like I'm talking to a little kid. "Lemme give you a hand with that." I wrap one hard around his biceps, turn him around so his back's to the bed. I want him to back up a couple of steps, so I put my other hand on his chest and push a little, walking him backwards. It occurs to me as I do this that it's the usual preliminary to getting a woman on her back an' me between her legs. But it ain't gonna happen and I still haven't quite figured out if I want it to, anyway, so I give my head a quick shake and just push him down into a sitting position.

It takes me a bit of wrestling and swearing, mostly under my breath, to get those goddamn bootlaces undone. I'm still working on the left one, when I feel his hand come down on my head. He's touching me very gently, but his hand is hot and heavy, and I can feel his fingers weaving ever so slowly through my hair.

"This is very ... kind of you, Ray," he says. I look up and see that his eyes are still half-shut, but all of a sudden he's looking as contented as a cat that's getting it's back scratched just so, right down by the tail there, the way cats always love it most. I get a chuckle out of thinking that Fraser'd be purring right now if he could figure out how. But it's kinda sad, too, 'cause takin' someone's boots off for them ain't much, an' it reminds me how little Red's ever had done for him by other folks. Ain't right, seein' how much he does for others. I know he don't expect much, and that ain't right either, a guy like Fraze sellin' himself short all the time. 

I snort under my breath as I finally tug the offending boot off. Takes one to know one, I think, 'cause I know all about not havin' much self-esteem.

I toss the boot behind me, but Fraze is so out of it, he doesn't even rem.. remer ... remonstrate. I grin. No big words from this boy tonight, even he's too worn out for that.

Next I tackle the belts and buckles and ropes and god only know what. The white thingy, what's that, the yard? It comes off nice and easy, but the buckly bits are harder, especially when you're tryin' to undo them from the wrong side, as it were. Fraser ain't even tryin' to help, just sittin' there all slumped and kinda limp.

I get that lot off and it's on to the shiny brass buttons. And velcro ... that's a surprise, velcro on the collar. I kinda figured they was pure traditionalists, the RCMP, an' if it weren't made back in eighteen-whatever then it wouldn't be their cuppa tea. But there, right beneath my own fingers is honest to god velcro. I peel it back and slide the tunic off those nice wide shoulders and just let it fall to the bed.

Suspenders on a white henley; it's a nice effect and I pause for a second to admire it. I seen it before, of course. First time was when I was holed up in the consulate after Volpe got whacked and Fraze turned up empty-handed from fetchin' my secret files from the precinct. Empty-handed but not empty-trousered. He was wide awake that day and those suspenders came down with way more flair than I'd have figured him for. Made me wonder if you could teach the boy to strip ... but, o' course, you'd've had to come up with some real convincing reason for it. Some time I gotta rent the Full Monty and make some popcorn an' see what he makes of it. Talk about fantasy-land.

I smirk up at those slightly unfocussed eyes and shake myself to dispel thoughts I can't afford to be having, not in a seedy motel room like this. The suspenders come down nice and easy and I work the henley out of his waistband. At least there's no belt to get in the way. 

It's surprisingly hard to get the shirt over his head and he finally comes out the other end looking real tousled. I gotta admit that it's one hell of a good look on him. He should tousle more often. Though maybe not. He's already got enough of a problem with all the females and quite a few of the males in Chicago wantin' to get inside those buttoned-down Mountie knickers of his.

Half-naked like this, bare feet and chest, he's fucking beautiful. I have to sit back on my heels for a moment and catch my breath. I'm real glad he's so damn sleepy, because he's no fool. Even if he couldn't see that my dick's started to get interested in the proceedings, I reckon he could probably smell that I'm gettin' aroused, just from lookin' at him an' the feel of his biceps under the palm of my left hand.

I take a kind of shaky breath and put my hand on his belly, to push him back a bit more. His abdomen is flat, no surprise there, just pale skin over hard muscle. He has no chest hair to speak of, just a few individual hairs swirling around the flat copper aureoles of his nipples, no more really than a woman might have if she didn't pluck and shave and groom the way Stella does. Did. Stella did.

"Put your arms back, Fraser," I murmur. "I gotta get these offa you." He nods without opening his eyes and braces his arms behind him, leaning backwards. His legs are spread, the way a woman's wouldn't be, unless she was thinkin' she wanted you between them, but he's a guy an' I'm a guy and I know it don't actually mean anything. I honestly don't think it would even occur to him what a come on that pose might be between two guys who was actually interested.

I shift forward a bit, between those long thighs, and wince as my half-hard cock rubs against the flap of my fly. Hell of a day to pick to go commando ... not that I had much choice, 'cause my boxers was missin' from my locker. I'm thinkin' that Lane chick commandeered 'em for a souvenir, which is kinda flatterin', come to think of it.

There's just one button on the waistband and I work it loose, feeling how soft the skin of his belly is against my knuckles. Then the zip and it comes down nice and easy. We struggle a bit with the concept of lifting up, but I finally get the jodhpurs down under his ass and puddled around his ankles. I hafta lift his feet one at a time to take the last step, and he's just swaying there, naked except for a pair of crisply starched white cotton boxers.

I want to admire the way he fills those boxers out. Even though I can't see any details, there sure as hell is nothing wrong with what he's got between his legs, an' I find myself wishin' for some evidence that he's finding these proceedings as interesting as I am. Nice as it is, though, there's no sign of anything stirring in that package tonight. I sigh and heave myself off the floor, shaking the stiffness out of my legs. I'm gettin' old to spend time kneelin' on crappy motel room carpet that don't do much to pad the concrete beneath it.

"C'mon, Fraze," I say. "Beddy-byes." He doesn't even look at me, just sits there swaying a bit. I can tell his arms aren't going to hold him up much longer. I walk around the bed, jerk the covers down as far as I can. Then I climb up behind him, wrap my arms under his armpits and clasp my hands over his sternum, all the time trying not to think about how warm and silky his skin feels under my hands. I take a big breath and yank him as far up the bed as I can. He sort of scrabbles about a bit, like he's trying to help, but he's way heavy an' I'm pantin' pretty good by the time I get his head up to pillow level. 

Not good. Oh no, not good at all. 'Cause now my back's to the wall, and his head's pillowed on my thighs, maybe a whole inch from that itchy bulge in my black jeans. He opens one bleary eye and looks up at me, like I'm not exactly in focus anyhow, and I thank the guardian angels of Chicago flatfoots that he isn't exactly up to noticing my hard dick, even if it is practically in his face.

Anyway, I'm not exactly the Chester-the-Molester type, you know, even if it would be easy to sort of accidentally on purpose take advantage of a situation like this. So like Mama Kowalski's good little boy, I wedge his head up with one hand and wriggle out from under. I feel virtuous as hell an' even kinda paternal as I pull the covers up and tuck them under his chin. He looks so much like a little boy, almost asleep the way he is, an' I'm surprised by the protective urge that shoots through me. I only ever felt protective towards Stella before now. Always figured everyone else could look after themselves. 

Silly, I know, 'cause if anyone can look after themselves, it's the Mountie. Mr. Perfect-in-every-way. But I know that's not quite fair. Took me a while, but I finally figured out that he don't think of himself as perfect. Not at all. It was that almost smug look he had when he shot the transmitter outta old Eco-disaster's hands, back on that garbage scow, that gave him away. I always thought it was all duty and Dudley-be-perfect with him, 'til I saw how much he enjoyed havin' a gun in his hands again an' being able to use it jus' exactly how he liked. And then, when he admitted logic don't always work, well right then I knew we was goin' to be okay again. As partners. An' as friends, though you don't exactly go round talkin' 'bout stuff like that.

Although Fraser has ... I can't stop myself from smiling as I remember that time in the consulate hallway, him tilting his head in that considerin' way he has, and then sayin', real solemn, "You're my friend." 'Course I hadda go askin' him if that was hard to say, figurin' it was a ruse to keep me there, 'cause what would Mr. Perfect want to go bein' friends with a screw-up like me for. But no, seems like he really meant it. Meant it then an' still means it.

"Ray." The soft whisper of his voice, scratchy as an over-played record, jerks me out of my reverie. I freeze, one hand tangled in the dark locks of his hair. Shit, I hadn't even realized I was doin' that. Ah fuck. Caught strokin' a guy's hair. I start to pull away hastily, ready to deny everything if I have to, and hopin' he's still too sleepy to make much of it, but his hand comes up and clamps around my wrist.

Christ, he's strong. His eyes are open now, the pupils dilated because he's had his eyes closed. I can see how tired he is in the red veins discolouring the whites of his eyes.

"Ray," he says again and his voice still sounds hoarse as hell and desperately tired. "Thank you kindly." That strong hand is tugging me down towards him an' I'm trying, all kinda panicky feelin', to resist it. After a second, he just holds me in place. His eyes seem to focus suddenly and he raises his head to meet mine. Our lips touch and I feel my heart jump like someone's touched a cattleprod to my chest.

Ah, Christ, it's warm and soft and dry and chaste as hell. "Thank you, Ray," he says again and I feel his grip loosen and his hand slips back onto the coverlet. His eyelids drift shut again and his whole body goes completely limp as I watch.

I stumble over to my own bed and collapse onto it. I can still feel the touch of his lips on mine. I bring one hand up, run my fingers along my own lips, tracing phantom warmth and pressure. He kissed me, I think. I think I'm in shock, sort of, just kinda stunned by that one simple fact, after everything else that's happened today. 

It's been a hell of a day. So maybe I didn't get the girl. But I got the poncho an' the winning home run, knocked 'er right outta the ballpark. An' maybe I got the boy as well. I dunno that yet, but at least I finally got the feeling we're in the same ballpark, Fraze an' me. It's taken long enough an' I'll wait a little longer, at least 'til he's had a decent night's sleep, to find out just what he meant when he kissed me.

I slip between my own sheets an' I can't keep the grin off my face. I hit a home run an' Fraser kissed me. Helluva day.

***

THE END

***

j_arundel@innocent.com


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